California

by Jack Foley

wind bangs tree limbs against my roof
lament of the burned houses:
as if the trees suddenly revolted
we have souls, like you
as if the trees were aware
they scatter into ashes
of what we have done to them
and foul your air
over the centuries
MALOS AIRES
but I know
we house
this is only my fancy:
your most intimate possessions
I have heard of the evacuations, the dying vineyards, the foul air,        the flames
they vanish with us
I know why my eyes are beginning to sting
into the dangerous wind